Living with my husband’s grandmother is absolute purgatory!
Sometimes I swear we’re not in a flat but a museum where even breathing too hard is a capital offence. For months, I’ve been begging my husband to move out—even to a rented place—because sharing a roof with his gran is pure torture. She won’t let anyone touch a single thing. Not the furniture, not the dust (yes, the dust!), nothing. Everything’s a “priceless antique” or “sentimental treasure,” and if I dare arrange so much as a cushion differently, she clutches her chest, wails about her blood pressure, and within half an hour, the entire family’s on the phone hearing how ungrateful we are.
Before we married, we got a mortgage on a flat. Our parents gave us a hefty wedding gift—enough to make me giddy at the thought of finally having our own space, where I could actually be the one in charge. We both worked, kept up with payments, and everything was fine… until I found out I was pregnant. A total shock—I was on birth control! At first, I panicked, even considered not going through with it, but my husband and parents were adamant: “Absolutely not!”
I kept working until the baby came, and we managed fine. But after our daughter was born, everything fell apart—we were down to one income. My husband took on extra shifts wherever he could, scrambling to make ends meet. Moving back with my parents wasn’t an option (their place is tiny), and his parents already had his younger brother and wife crammed in.
Enter Gran. She swooped in, offering her three-bedroom place—plenty of room, she said. I barely knew her then, but she seemed lovely. We agreed, rented out our flat, and financially, things eased up… but emotionally? Oh, it got worse.
At first, it was bearable. Then came the nightmare. Her house runs on one rule: Don’t. Touch. Anything. Not even our toddler! If our daughter grabs something or crawls where she shouldn’t, Gran has a “near-fatal episode” and accuses me of deliberately provoking her with a baby as my weapon. When my husband gets home, she serves up a dramatic monologue about what a terrible mother I am, how disrespectful I am, how I’m plotting her demise. And him? He shrugs. Acts like it’s normal. For me, it’s unbearable. I’m one more “precious heirloom” away from a breakdown.
I beg him: Let’s move back to our flat. Tight budget or not, at least we’ll be free of this madness. He tells me to hang on—just until my maternity leave ends. But how?
I suggested swapping roles—let him stay home with Gran while I work. He refused. So I issued an ultimatum: If we’re not out next month, I’m taking our daughter and moving in with my parents, even if it’s miles away. He’s thinking it over. And I’m waiting. Not for words—for action. Because I can’t take another day of living in her glass case of emotional tyranny.
